Sunday mornings
by Lady Lola
Summary: Some drabbles linked by the same theme: sunday mornings. M rated. Fluff, slash, love, angst, h/c, the whole package. In progress.
1. Mycroft and Lestrade

**MYCROFT AND LESTRADE**

Mycroft woke up to the singing of a family of birds that nested in the park of his villa.  
>"<em>Carduelis Carduelis britannica<em>" he thought, enjoying their melody with eyes still closed.  
>As soon as he heard a soft moan coming from his right, he opened his eyes to find his lover staring at him.<br>"Oh, look who's here. Hello Myc, I didn't hear you coming home last night. Sorry I fell asleep, but I was dead tired".  
>"Don't worry Greg. Actually, I'm quite happy you didn't wait for me, since I made it home only at 2 o'clock in the morning. I assume your day was as stressful as mine".<br>Mycroft looked carefully at his partner's face; though they were both close to their mid-forties, they looked very different: Mycroft's face looked younger (probably because chubby faces usually get less wrinkles) and his hair was darker, while Greg was graying fast and there were lines and shadows around and under his eyes.

"Only bad cops who don't care for their job don't get old in advance" he supposed in his head.

"You know, your brother is a bloody genius and I really appreciate his help, but sometimes he's such a pain in the ass..." Greg admitted in a whisper.  
>"That's why I worry about him constantly" Mycroft replied, "Though I admit that living with dr. Watson is starting changing him".<br>Lestrade smiled, and Holmes couldn't help smiling back.

He felt so lucky he found himself someone like Lestrade, someone who could not only bear Holmeses's oddities, but also loved them.  
>When their relationship had started, they were both pretty scared and insecure for lots of reasons: both shattered and lonely, both with difficult jobs and difficult personalities, not to mention the fact that Mycroft was Sherlock's brother and Greg was almost his "boss", so they were not sure if Sherlock would have tolerate their love story.<br>However, Sherlock didn't seem to mind and their worries slowly disappeared.

Mycroft leaned down to kiss Greg on the lips, softly at first, but with an increasing passion.  
>Greg responded hungrily and dragged Mycroft to lie on top of him; he loved feeling his lover's weight on him, because it made everything - his new sense of peace, his renewed faith in love, his utter happiness - <em>everything real<em>.  
>"Mmm Gregory, woken up hungry, lover boy, haven't we?" Myc murmured on his lips: he slid his hands on the older man's chest, teasing his nipples at first with his thumbs and then with his tongue.<br>Lestrade arched his back in pleasure, pressing a hand on the back of Holmes's head to keep is mouth on his oversensitive nipple; as soon as Greg eased his grip, Mycroft raised his head to suck his earlobe and whispered: "Lift your arms over your head and hold on the headboard, honey; you're mine now and I want you to be completely at my mercy".  
>"Damn Myc" Greg groaned, but still did as he was asked to; there was no doubt the older Holmes knew what he was doing, 'cause every kiss and every lick on the abdomen and navel made the D.I. mumble in pleasure.<p>

As he felt a hot breath on his cock, even though it was through the cotton layer of his boxers, Gregory closed his eyes and shivered in anticipation.  
>Feeling Greg shivering under his hands, Mycroft smiled his most obscene smile and pulled Lestrade's pants down to his ankles, then removed them completely.<br>Greg's cock was standing in front of his eyes now, hard as a rock, red and ready; Myc licked his lips like a starving man about to eat a Christmas dinner, then planted a dirty kiss on the top of Greg's penis.  
>Lestrade opened his eyes wide, then relaxed and closed them again; Mycroft licked the downside of his cock, teasing at first the base and then the tip, and alternating kisses and light sucks on the balls.<br>As soon as he spotted few drops of precum, he licked the head of his lover's cock clean and took it all in his mouth.  
>"Holy Jeeeeeee..." Gregory squealed, overwhelmed with pleasure: the mouth surrounding him was so hot, wet and talented; he clawed the headboard so hard he could hear the wood creak in his hands, while his hips thrust forward by their own will.<br>Mycroft started speeding up, sucking him with increasing force while he used his right arm to prop himself up and his left hand to caress and sometimes gently squeeze Greg's bollocks.  
>The speed and the shallowness in Lestrade's breathing was a clear sign that he was close to his climax; he removed one of his hands from the headboard and cupped Mycroft's nape for few moments, then tapped on his shoulder to catch his attention.<br>"Oh Myc, honey, I'm quite - ehm - close, and you probably should - mmm - back off" Gregory moaned.  
>Mycroft lift his gaze, making sure that Greg could notice his mischievous look, then gave a long, deep and dirty suck to Greg's cock.<br>Lestrade screamed, neck and back arching almost painfully when he tossed his head back and came in his lover's mouth.  
>Holmes swallowed his semen with a pleased moan, keeping on licking since Gregory was completely clean and then removed his mouth from his cock smiling.<p>

"My goodness, Myckey, you're amazing! Give me just few minutes to recover and I'll be more than happy to return the favor" Greg panted.  
>"Don't hurry yourself, Gregory, I can wait; I waited for someone like you for all my life, surely I can wait few more moments" Mycroft replied with a wide smile.<br>He slid up, rested his head on the pillow and stared at his lover; Greg kissed him, petting his chin with a thumb for what it seemed an eternity.  
>Then he stopped, and spoke in a soft voice. "Really, Mycroft, every tiring day, every late night, every maddening feud with Sherlock and every horrendous crime don't mean a thing if I can spend my Sundays here with you. I love you".<br>"I love you, too" Mycroft answered, his last word partly hushed by Greg's lips on his own again.


	2. Sherlock

**Author here: I messed up. The first chapter was meant to be a "one-shot" fic, so I posted it.**

**Then I thought to add other chapters add I wrote down this one, but now I'm adding it to the first and they're not in chronological order :'(**

**So I hope you don't mind going back in the past, then maybe forward in the future, then again back to the present.**

**The title of every chapter will help you understand where and when that part of the fic is set (hopefully).**

**If you think it's hard to follow, please let me know and I'll try to fix my mistake.**

* * *

><p><strong>SHERLOCK<strong>

It was Saturday night - very late night actually - and Sherlock was foretasting a fucking good Sunday: Wade's stuff he had taken a couple of hours before was high-quality, he felt over the top and the crime scene looked promising.

He grinned and took few steps to reach the dead man on the ground.

"No no no no! Where do you think you're going?" Lestrade stood in front of him, blocking his way to the crime scene.

"Ehm, Lestrade, you may not be the smartest man on Earth, but I'm pretty sure _you too_ did notice the corpse lying down there" Sherlock replied.

"So what? It doesn't explain why you're here."

"Seriously, Lestrade? It's a crime scene, you need me" Sherlock added, looking incredulous.

"_Since when do I need clarify this? __My God, Lestrade's turning out to be as dull as other cops"_ he thought, but just before he could pronounce this thought Lestrade spoke.

"Of course I need you, you moron, but there's no way I'll let your dopey ass walk to my crime scene. You may think Sgt. Donovan down there is stupid, but she'll notice you're high as a kite and she's already pissed off with you enough.

I'm risking it all when I call for you and you're clean, but letting you in there when you're in such state… No. Fucking. Way." Lestrade pointed out, stressing out his last three by pushing Sherlock away.

"Oh, come on! I could come here with the syringe still stuck in my arm and most of your _highly trained men_ would not even realize that! How are they supposed to solve this mess?" Sherlock protested.

He was angry , he didn't want all of that to be so difficult.

He wanted to get to the scene, make his brain work, and then perhaps start a good chase. Oh gosh, he wanted a good chase so badly he could actually feel the physical need.

Lestrade shook his head and glared at him icily.

"Sorry, boy, I simply can't. Go back home, go to your brother, go to a hospital: I don't care, as long as you come back clean next time.

In your actual state, you could be Stephen Hawkins and Albert Einstein's fucking genius son and still be useless to me.

Gotta make a choice: getting high solving crimes and helping people or getting high ruining your life with cocaine. You can't have both".

The DI waited for Sherlock to nod, hoping the boy would give credit to his words, but instead he hissed an angry "Fuck you!" and stormed off, leaving the cop behind.

* * *

><p>Sherlock walked away in a hurry; he was really pissed off.<p>

He was bored and angry, and he stopped in front of every control camera on his way to shout at his brother, who was surely watching or recording him.

He could fell his head heavy, slow developing thoughts were clouding his mind and his high was crushing down dangerously fast.

He headed fast to a certain house in Montague Street, climbed to the third floor and knocked lightly at a black door. He whispered something to an unknown face behind the barrier, slipped some cash under the door and got a little bag back.

He walked some steps down the same road, entered a dirty, tatty building and then reached his flat.

The lights and the heating were off, since he hadn't remembered to pay the bills (and even if he had remembered, he wouldn't have had enough money – and if he had had the money, he would have spent it for other things, such as the little bag he had in his hands at the moment).

He took off his coat ungracefully, let it fall on the floor and sit on the battered sofa.

Luckily, morning was approaching fast – "_Bloody Sunday morning_" he thought, knowing that his brother would have soon called him to invite him to the traditional lunch with Mummy – so he could easily see what he was doing.

He prepared his fix, arranged some sort of tourniquet around his arm and kicked all in a vein with a steady movement.

Then he immediately knew something was wrong.

His heart was beating fast - too fast, his breathing was shallow and difficult and his body was trembling out of control.

He fell on the floor with a loud thud, incapable of moving or speaking, and just lay there drooling till the world before his eyes went black.


	3. Mycroft

**Author here: I messed up. The first chapter was meant to be a "one-shot" fic, so I posted it.**

**Then I thought to add other chapters, but now they're not in chronological order :'(**

**So I hope you don't mind going back in the past, then maybe forward in the future, then again back to the present.**

**The title of every chapter will help you understand where and when that part of the fic is set (hopefully).**

**If you think it's hard to follow, please let me know and I'll try to fix my mistake.**

* * *

><p><strong>MYCROFT<strong>

It was Saturday night - very late night actually - and Mycroft was still in his office.

He actually should have left few hours ago, but Persephone had come in in a rush and brought him nasty news about an alarming issue between North Corea and Japan that involved warships, missiles and not-so-subtle threats.

He had spent long hours at the phone, both trying to cool the waters and keep the mess hidden from the news agencies.

As soon as he heard the last, good news from few of his "people" on the field, he relaxed and started getting ready to leave the office.

He straightened his desk a little, rearranged the immaculate tie around his neck and dictated few short messages to Persephone, before turning around and taking the last look to the monitors he had behind his back.

As soon as Sherlock appeared on the scene, he sighed.

His brother was walking fast, an angry smirk on his pale face that changed in a exaggerate mask of disgust every time he stopped in front of a camera to yell at it.

Mycroft was tired, disappointed and not happy at all to know he would have had to deal with one of Sherlock's black moods later.

He sighed again, got up from the chair and headed to the door.

"Persephone, dear" he started, "please stay here for a while and keep on following Sherlock's moves. If something doesn't looks or sound quite right, I want to be informed immediately".

"No problem, sir. Try to get some rest, sir" she added smiling.

Mycroft stepped into the car and closed his eyes as soon as he felt the engine start.

The traffic in the City was not at his full expansion that early in the morning, but his home was pretty distant from the office, so he could always appreciate some minutes of light sleep while the driver took him back to his place.

This time, however, this peaceful moment was abruptly interrupted by his telephone ringing.

"Tell me" he just said; he knew who was on the other side of the line without looking at the screen.

"Sir, your brother had purchased a hard dose of badly cut cocaine, and he had overdosed. I got here as soon as I could with the medical team, and now we're heading to the clinic" Persephone told him, her breathing fast but showing no other signs of stress or emotion.

"Thank you, Persephone. I'll be there soon" Mycroft replied.

He quickly communicated the change in his destination to the driver, who promptly inverted the road, and pushed back to the leather seat, his right hand tightening his umbrella with an iron grip.

It took 15 minutes to get to the hospital.

When he arrived, Persephone was waiting for him before the entrance with a cup of his usual breakfast tea in her hand.

He thanked her and grabbed the cup, then let her talk.

"Your brother's in room 4012, third floor. Doctor Lawrence said he was lucky we were watching him and immediately called for help, otherwise he probably wouldn't have survived.

The cocaine he took was cut with atropine, that caused tachycardia" his young assistant explained.

When they reached the door, Mycroft stopped.

"Thank you, dear, I take it from now on. Have a happy Sunday, and please bring my greetings to your parents; I'm still grateful for the wonderful cake your mother baked me last week" Mycroft told her smiling.

"She'll be pleased to hear it. If there's anything I can do, please let me know, sir" Persephone answered, then turned on her heels and left him alone.

Mycroft kept the smile on his face for few more seconds, then closed his eyed and swallowed, before entering his brother's room.

Sherlock was lying in a big bed, his face as pale as the sheets that covered him.

He was asleep and looked peaceful, but it was easy for Mycroft to detect every minimum sign of his destructive habits on his whole body: his little brother was too thin, too unnaturally pale, his cheekbones were too prominent on his narrow face and he could see the ribs even under both the covers and the dressing gown.

Mycroft sighed painfully.

He had always known that Sherlock's incredible mind made him an easy prey for boredom, but he had also thought that the same incredible mind knew that drugs were not an answer.

Unfortunately, it wasn't so.

The older man dragged a chair next to his brother's bed, sat heavily and took a thin, cold hand between his own.

There was an old song playing in his head, and he fought hard to delete it.

"Sunday morning, praise the dawning  
>It's just a restless feeling by my side<br>Early dawning, Sunday morning  
>It's just the wasted years so close behind"*<p>

* * *

><p>* The song is "Sunday morning" by Velvet Underground.<p>

I thought the lyrics were appropriate.


	4. John

**Author here: I messed up. The first chapter was meant to be a "one-shot" fic, so I posted it.**

**Then I thought to add other chapters, but now they're not in chronological order :'(**

**So I hope you don't mind going back in the past, then maybe forward in the future, then again back to the present.**

**The title of every chapter will help you understand where and when that part of the fic is set (hopefully).**

**If you think it's hard to follow, please let me know and I'll try to fix my mistake.**

* * *

><p><strong>JOHN<strong>

John suddenly woke up to the annoying sound of the alarm clock set on his watch, covered in sweat and with an headache that made him quite annoyed.

He looked at his watch and found out that he surprisingly managed to rest for almost three hours, which was his personal record since British troops had been deployed in Helmand.

He dressed up quickly and went to check the patients he had treated the day before; there were no lives in danger, though Davidson had almost had his hand cut off by a dirty bomb that luckily hadn't worked properly; he had just got few first and second degree burns.

Other soldiers – Jibbs, McConnies and Fahel – were fine, they had few scratches that were about to heal; after giving some orders to the nurses, he went to the mess-hall to have breakfast.

John knew he had to get as much energy as possible, since there was an important mission planned in the morning and he and his team were supposed to back up and give medical support directly on the field.

When he had done eating, he went back to his quarters, lay on his bed and started thinking; he knew, as he had always known, that being part of the medical support troops was the right thing to do, but there was a tiny little corner of his brain that couldn't help but thinking about the fact that maybe this mission was not the right way to solve the problems with terrorists.

He dismissed the thought; he was an army doctor, his duty was to help injured soldiers and contractors, not to argue about political issues with his own brain.

"_You're helping people, don't forget__ it" _John said to himself before propping up and getting ready for the mission.

:/: :/: :/:

He was sitting in the Red Cross humvee, he had his team buddy Bill Murray on his left and a nice American fellow called T.J. (_"Hi guys, I'm Teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Jaaaaaaayyyyyy from Springdale, Arkansas. Let's patch up our soldier-guys!"_) on his right.

As soon as they got in their position and stepped out of the vehicle, John felt that something was not entirely right: the air was still and they couldn't hear a sound, despite being at least nine o'clock of a Sunday morning in a usually quite noisy war zone.

He turned around, and he could see that his sense of discomfort was shared by all the people standing there with him.

As the soldiers told them to get back on the humvee and wait for further instructions, a rain of bullets hit them.

"That's an ambush! RUN AND HIDE! FAST!" John heard screaming, and he found himself running and jumping in a ditch behind a bush.

The hitmen were above them, carefully placed on the top of the two towers that stood next to the gate outside Naw Zad, so there was no chance of reaching a better hide-out in the town and waiting for backups.

The only chance to survive was getting back on the vehicles and run away.

He was happy to see that Bill, the other members of his team and T.J. were in the vehicle, and he was pretty sure they were safe because he didn't think their enemies also had anti-tank missiles.

John knew that the sooner he got out of the bush, the better.

He was the only one of his group who was in extreme danger; he tried to sneak out of the pit, but few shots near him stopped him immediately.

/_/ /_/ /_/

Time was passing very slowly, and John fought hard to control his urge of moving away from there; instead he kept himself still on the ground, feeling his heart hammering in his chest and breathing deeply to gain the full control of his body.

Some minutes later (but in his mind John was ready to oath it was hours later) he decided he couldn't wait longer: he checked his gun, took a last, deep breath, and, taking advantage from the fact that both hitmen were involved in a shooting with the soldiers, ran out of his hide-out to reach the humvee.

He couldn't believe he was actually running that fast while shooting to the towers to cover himself up; he was few steps away from the vehicle, when suddenly he felt a burning pain in his left shoulder and fell on the ground.

He could feel his own blood soaking his t-shirt, while his body was trembling and his temperature was dropping fast due to the blood loss.

"_I'm done, not coming home_" John thought, his mind blurred and light; he saw a picture of his family in front of his eyes, and felt the tears on his cheeks.

"P-please God, let me l…"

Then the darkness had him.

* * *

><p><strong>Author here: I'm not into all military things such as equipment, <strong>**rules and so on, so I apologize if I made mistakes.**

**I made some researches about the position of British troops in Afghanistan and what kind of vehicles and weapons the medical teams are supposed to use, but there's an high chance I messed up, sorry about that.**

**Please, if you point out something that needs to be changed, please write it in a review and I'll fix my mistake. Thank you!**


	5. John chapter 2

**Author here: I messed up. The first chapter was meant to be a "one-shot" fic, so I posted it.**

**Then I thought to add other chapters, but now they're not in chronological order :'(**

**So I hope you don't mind going back in the past, then maybe forward in the future, then again back to the present.**

**The title of every chapter will help you understand where and when that part of the fic is set (hopefully).**

**If you think it's hard to follow, please let me know and I'll try to fix my mistake.**

****Author here again: since the last chapter was pretty short, I'm adding this bit.****

* * *

><p><strong>JOHN chapter 2<strong>

Thirsty.

That's how John felt at first.

... ... ...

Thirsty. He felt like he had had his mouth scrubbed with sandpaper and had swallowed a mouthful of dust.

He tried to speak, but the only sound coming from his lips was some sort of "Rarrgh", then nothing else. He didn't try again, because his throat hurt.

"_Let's wait then_" he thought.

Suddenly, he realised he didn't have any fucking clue about where he was. He should have panicked, but there was something in the air that soothed him.

He fell asleep.

§...§ §...§

Few hours later, John woke up again.

This time he was more lucid, so he gathered all the poor energies left and tried to figure out where he was.

He tried to open his eyes, but it didn't work: his eyelids were not responsive, and after a few more attempts he gave up. Instead, he focused on other details: he could hear a rhythmic beep beside him and the sound of something like far away steps.

When he went to examine the air he was breathing, he made his most important discovery in his life: what he had considered so soothing when he had first woken up was the very peculiar smell of antiseptic cleansers, such as the ones in a…

_Hospital._

_; . ; . ; . ;_

"_I'm in a hospital. Hospital! Not dying in the sand outside Naw Zad! Lucky bastard!"_

_:-:-:-:-:_

John finally opened his eyes only few hour after his epiphany.

He looked at his own body for a while, just to make sure he had everything still at its proper place.

However, he felt that there was something that bothered both his shoulder and his leg, but he couldn't tell what exactly that thing was.

As soon as he realised he couldn't find out what was wrong, since he knew all he painkillers he had been given had destroyed any chance of finding out any problem in his body by his own, a tall, blonde man walked into his room.

"Good morning dr. Watson, I am dr. Philips and you're in the military hospital in Farah. How do you feel today?" the man asked.

"Fine, I suppose. Can't really tell with this stuff going through my veins. What happened?" John huskily replied.

Dr. Philips frowned. "Can't you remember what happened?"

John swallowed and answered: "I remember we were in a mission. We got in an ambush, and I got shot. That's all".

"That's true, you got shot. The bullet went through your left shoulder, and you suffered a massive blood loss that almost killed you.

As soon as you reached your camp, your team did everything they could to help you and saved your life; later on, however, you developed a severe septicaemia and we had to perform another, invasive surgery to carve a slice of necrotic tissue from your shoulder. We tried to minimize the damage to your nerves, but honestly I don't think you will regain the full sensibility in your shoulder and arm" Philips explained. His voice was calm and steady, and there was no trace of that false pity that often doctors had.

John was happy for that, he preferred the simple truth, even if a sad truth, instead of some happy but blatant lies.

"What about my leg? Had I been shot there too?" John asked.

"There's nothing wrong with your leg" the doctor answered.

"There's something wrong with it, I'm sure" the patient replied; "Well, we'll have you checked, just to avoid the risk of blood clots; I'm pretty confident we'll find none".

Philips greeted him and left to check another patient's conditions.

/-\ /-\

Few weeks later, John was doing his exercises; it was a sunny Sunday morning, but he refused to join other patients in the common room because he wanted to make sure the shoulder was recovering fast and he was ready to get back to his team as soon as possible.

He stopped to drink some water, so he saw the three people entering the exercise room and walking towards him.

He felt his leg aching, but he couldn't explain why.

Those three people were his superiors in command, and had reached him to tell him he had been pronounced unfit to the service and was about to get back home.

"_THAT'S SO WRONG! I CAN DO EVERYTHING I COULD DO BEFORE! TRY ME! !"_

That's what John wanted to scream, but he simply couldn't, because he was not capable of voicing those words. He watched them leave, his form of leave in his hands.

As they closed the door behind their backs, he felt an unbearable sting of pain in his leg and he fell down.

* * *

><p><strong>P.s. <strong>**As before, I'm not into Medicine either, so please accept my apologies for my mistakes.**

**As usual, if you think I should correct something, please let me know adding a comment and I'll fix it. Thank you.**


	6. Sherlock chapter 2

**Author's note: Here's ****the**** deal: a part from the first chapter "Mycroft and Lestrade", all the other chapters are in the right chronological order.**

**I must admit I feel a bit sad about this fic because I only got one review so far and I'm starting thinking I'm not good enough :(**

**Well, let's move to the chapter...**

§ ooo §

**SHERLOCK chapter 2**

Some weeks after the "accident" that almost costed him the life, Sherlock finally returned to his life; work was getting better: he happily solved a tricky case in Florida (a midle aged man who had killed his mistress and tried to frame his jealous wife – he had ensured the sentence and gained the wife's life-long gratitude, included a quite affordable flat in Baker Street).

Of course, his little défaillance brought him tons of cons: Mummy was upset and phoned every hour to check on him, while Mycroft was annoying as hell and raised his level of surveillance to the highest limit possible.

Of course, the best part in his "new life" was that Lestrade had finally gave up and called him on a crime scene in the afternoon of a very boring Sunday.

The case itself was easy to handle (just housebreaking), but some threats and strange messages in a foreing language left to the householder made it a bit more interesting.

As soon as he got to the scene, Sherlock pulled out a deep breath and kicked his brain awake.

After a few moments of observation, the consulting detective grinned and started the show: his deductions were blurting out of his mouth at an incredible speed, his body was shivering with excitement and his hands waved in the air like they were dancing on a stage.

After every sentence he pronounced, after every side of the mistery he solved, he could spot Lestrade's jaw fall a bit lower and felt amused.

By the end of his speech, the case was cleared out: the trespasser was the daughter's unwelcome boyfriend, who was pissed off with his girlfriend's parents - they wouldn't let him see her - and left those messages ("Anagrams, not some misterious secret language, Donovan. Instead of scrubbing Anderson's floor, try enigmatografy as your next hobby") hoping that he could play the hero by solving his own riddles.

After sending Donovan to collect the boy and sending everyone else home, Lestrade left the crime scene and followed Sherlock.

It took few steps, then Holmes felt the man next to him.

"I'm glad you're back, Sherlock, I really am. I would have come to visit you, but every time I tried to locate you you were out of my reach" the DI apologized.

"I know, my brother can be very opposing when he has a goal to achieve" Sherlock admitted.

"B-Brother? You mean there are two of you? God almighty, gonna rule the world, arent' you?" Lestrade jocked.

"Not me, be positive. Mycroft, on the other end..."

Although people thought he liked to exaggerate his brother's power as to turn him into the supervillain in a spy story, he knew better than that: his brother was powerful, determinate and simply instoppable.

He shrugged away the thought and resumed to listen to Lestrade.

"My gosh, your parents must really be two pieces of work" the inspector laughed, but quickly became serious again; "Really, Sherlock, don't screw up this time. You lose everything once again, and you won't be able to get it back. Expect me to come and check your place" he added.

"Really, Lestrade? Threatening me with drug busts?" Sherlock replied surprised.

"It won't be a threat if we find something. Don't make it happen" Lestrade pinpointed, stopping before the consultant's front door.

"Goodnight, Lestrade" Sherlock sighed, and stepped in.

ç _ ç _ ç

**Author's here again: short chapter, sorry about it.**

**I'm kinda stuck with this fic, I hope this block will disappear soon.**

**P.s. this is set during a Sunday afternoon, I hope it doesn't represent a big problem.**


	7. Lestrade and Mycroft chapter 1

**Author's note: ****Thanks for your kind reviews!**

**Thanks to Red Leper for pointing out my mistakes (damn my fat fingers and the lack of sleep) and also to Carolyn and Science of Deduction for their appreciation!**

**As I planned to write yesterday evening, and as you requested Carolyn, here's the meeting.**

§ ooo §

**LESTRADE and MYCROFT chapter 1**

He watched Sherlock's door closing, then turned on his heels and shrugged.

"This is going to be the death of me" he muttered.

Just before starting to walk, a big, black, unmarked limo parked to his right and the door opened.

He stopped, lowered his head and tried to look inside the car.

"DI Lestrade, please be kind and step in" a soft voice told him.

The DI bursted a dry laugh. "No way, buddy. I'm not gonna jump on the backseats of an unmarked car with someone I've never met" he replied.

"Please, Inspector, I am not an enemy. This is simply a friendly meeting. Get in the car" the stranger repeated, putting more force in his voice.

"Fine then". Lestrade bent his back, sat on the leather seats and, with a rapid but firm movement, pulled out his gun and pointed it to the man sat in front of him.

"There is no need to be so aggressive, Detective Inspector. I told you, I'm not your enemy. Let me introduce myself: my name is Mycroft Holmes and, according to my sources, you are one of my brother's closest acquaintances" the man said, in the meanwhile pulling out his hand and waiting for the policeman to shake it.

Lestrade's eyes almost popped out of their holes: a part from the alabaster pale skin and the dark hair, they couldn't have been more different.

While Sherlock's entire figure was constantly shaken by his endless energy, his brother was calm, placid, almost motionless; the younger brother was bad mannered and had a cruel and sarcastic smirk, whereas the elder was accomodating, kind and smiling.

"All right then" the cop sighed, putting his gun back in the holster and shacking his hand, "what do you want from me?".

"Straight to the point, I appreciate that. Well, DI Lestrade, what I want is quite simple: I want what's best for Sherlock.

I want him satisfied with his life, or at least I want him _the most satisfied_ he can be. I don't want to receive another phone call telling me my brother has overdosed and lies unconscious in a pull of his own vomit.

Apparently, using his intellect and legwork to solve crimes – or mysteries, cases, experiments or whatever he calls them – makes him quite happy, so I am here to ensure that he can access every case he wants to investigate on" Mycroft smiled, staring intensely at Lestrade.

"Wait a minute, you can't ask me that! It doesn't depend on me: you should talk to the tip of the pyramid, I'm nothing more then the fucking basement. And good luck with that, truthfully they don't really like your brother" the DI protested.

"Oh, don't worry about that, Inspector. I've already talked to the responsibles, and they've already cleared the path. Now, I need you to grant me that you _will_ call Sherlock as often as you can and that your team won't be too harassing" Holmes replied, using a tone of voice that sounded both extremely threatening and somehow sweet and sensual in Greg's ears.

That soothing, enticing voice, along with the enormous self-confidence and the fire that burnt in Mycroft's eyes worked their magic on Lestrade, and he suddenly felt his body responding.

_Oh please_, Gregory thought, _try not to get a hard-on in front of Mycroft bloody Holmes. You're not 15 or something!_

He quickly regained a little peace and replied "It would be a lot easier if your brother just stopped implying, insulting and, generally speaking, pissing people off".

"I know, that harshness has always been a distinctive trait of his personality. Even Mother tried to get rid of it and failed, so you can't actually expect me to do it. Just get on with it, please, and I assure you you'll be greatly rewarded".

"If I didn't know you're a bloody genius as much as your brother is, I would think you're trying to bribe me. Well, don't" the cop murmured, adding a quick smirk.

Just for a second, Mycroft looked surprised.

"I was not..." he retorted, but stopped talking as soon as he saw the grin on the DI's face; "A word to the wise" he added, a sincere smile finally appearing on his lips.

They spent the rest of the journey chatting lightly, getting to know each other and settling in a far more relaxed mood now that they both knew they were playing their cards by the rules.

Some time later, the car stopped in front of Scotland Yard.

"It was a great pleasure meeting you, DI Lestrade" Mycroft declared.

"My pleasure, mr. Holmes. Next time, however, try to avoid all of this 'I'm kidnapping you' stuff; just ring my doorbell and come up to my place, it'll be far more comfortable" Lestrade said slowly, teasing Mycroft more than he actually meant.

Not giving Holmes the chance to reply (and also enjoying the light blush on his pale cheeks and the astonished look in his eyes), he jumped out of the car and entered the building.

At the end of their "friendly meeting", Lestrade could feel that the differences between the two Holmes brothers ran way lower than the simple appearances: Sherlock was pretty intimidating with his attitude and his intelligence, not to mention his sex-appeal, but Mycroft was absolutely both intriguing and scaring as Sin.

Greg laughed, and thought "_Adoro le complicazioni, fanno per me_"*

* * *

><p>* Sentence from an italian song called "Luna".<p>

It can be translated as following: "I love complications, they suit me fine!"

!^!

**Author's note: Yay, two chapters (though short) in two days, WTF?**

**Any suggestion? Liked them?**

**Please, leave a message :)**


	8. John chapter 3

**Author's note: thanks again for your attention and the kind comments :)**

**A new chapter is here, don't forget to read and review!**

§ ooo §

**JOHN chapter 3**

It was the second week after his return to London from Afghanistan.

John had finally settled into the little, anonymous flatlet he could barely afford with his poor army pension.

The previous Friday he had also started his weekly sessions with the therapist, and during that first meeting he couldn't help but thinking to the fellow soldiers he had left on duty: he missed them and his work so much he felt a cool, tight knot clutching his stomach.

After waking up at 4 o' clock in the morning, his nightclothes drenching with sweat and the sound of his screams still ringing in his ears, John felt helpless and miserable.

The fact that he was having nightmares now that he was safe and sound in London, and not risking his life on the line of fire in Kabul, upset him more than he could explain.

He got up, 'cause he knew that he couldn't go back to sleep, poured himself a cuppa and sat on his tiny bed with a lost expression on the face.

He stood up again, took his text book about emergency procedures and started reading; it felt like it was the only thing he could do: he wasn't an army doctor anymore, but that didn't mean he stopped thinking that medicine was the most important part in his life.

sh – SH – sh

At seven o'clock, he finally put the book on his desk, finished his third cup of tea and went o the bathroom to take a long and hopefully relaxing shower.

His shoulder was giving him a little rest, but unfortunately his leg ached painfully.

That was the worst part of his comeback: constantly living with the throbbing pain of an injury he never sustained, just because his twisted mind was upset by the memories f the war.

He stepped out of the shower, returned to the room and dressed up; he carefully made the bed, tidied the already perfectly kept room and left the flat.

John wandered quietly for a bit , not bothering about his final destination. He found himself standing in front of a church: usually, he would have felt good in entering and joining the Sunday celebration; however, in that moment he felt nothing at all.

He looked at the church one last time, turned his back to it and left.

After walking for a quite long, he realized that it was almost nine o'clock and he was starving. He took a look around, spotted a little café at the corner of the street and got in.

He was standing in line waiting for his turn, when he heard someone stepping closer and murmuring a surprised: "John?".

He froze on his spot, closed his eyes and swallowed. He turned on his heels and faced his sister Harriet.

§ sh § sh §

"So, when did you arrive home?" Harry asked.

They were sitting at a little table next to the window; Harriet was fidgeting with her mochaccino while John was sipping his English Breakfast tea and playing with the wrapper if a muffin he had already ate.

"Errr... ehm... Two weeks ago" John answered.

"Two weeks? Would you have told me if we didn't met?" Harry almost shouted; the she added: "Do mum and dad know?"

"I told them as soon as I arrived, and later on I tried to call you but Clara said you don't live with her anymore. She told me she had to kick you out, said you are drinking again. What the Hell Harry!" John sighed; he was angry with his sister, angry because she was spoiling what was still good in her life, just for the booze.

"Don't even start, John! I've already heard it all before from Clara, then from mum, and then again from almost all of my friends... So, don't go there" his sister grunted, before swallowing angrily her last sip of coffee.

"Listen" she started, after some minutes of tense silence, "I'm trying to follow the 12 steps. I know I messed up and lost everything that counted in my life, but I want to make amend.

Now that you're here, now that you're back, maybe we could... I don't know, keep in touch?".

Harry sounded really hopeful, so John didn't have the courage to turn her down; he sighed.

"Yeah, I can't see why not..."

"Great... this is great. Why don't you give me you phone number? Or I can give you mine..." Harry opened her bag and pulled out a little address book with a pencil, and then stared at John waiting for his number.

"I don't have a phone, Harry. I live on my army pension, I can't waste my money on expensive gadgets" John admitted in a sad whisper.

"Take mine then! It's a gift from Clara, but she didn't want it back when we split. Here!"

She pulled out a black, elegant but quite used phone; she took out her sim card and handed the phone to her brother.

John took the phone, looked at it for a while and then said "Thank you Harry, I really appreciate your help".

= sh = sh =

When the breakfast was done, they left the café and headed toward the nearest metro station.

They were both silent, both trying to process the new information and the new feelings about each other. John knew Harriet had a long way before her, and he feared that her motivations were not strong enough to support her during the path, but still he was glad she wanted to try

As the train arrived, they hugged a bit clumsily.

He watched her sister get on the train, frowning when he spotted the tremors in her hands; she waved and stopped looking at him, at a brother that loved her but was also so angry.

John shook his head, sighed and left the dock, alone.

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><p><strong>Note: As usual, let me know what you think about this chapter and the whole story so far ;)<strong>


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